


Forever Is Our Today

by ImpishTubist, silentsonata



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon - Book, Canon - TV, Established Relationship, Fluff, Genderfluid Character, Mortality, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: Five years after the failed Apocalypse, Hell finally carries out Crowley’s sentence.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 59
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	Forever Is Our Today

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Mini Bang event. Title comes from Queen’s “Who Wants To Live Forever”. Beta’d by the lovely [Canon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative).
> 
> My artist for this event was [silent--sonata](silent--sonata.tumblr.com), who wrote TWO lovely songs to accompany this fic! 
> 
> You can find the first song and the accompanying music video she created [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8IN75mO9Ys). The second song can be found at the end of the fic. She also created the lovely graphic you see below.
> 
> Thank you so much for working with me on this, my dear! It was wonderful to collaborate with you.

Morning was _not_ Crowley’s favorite time of day. 

Granted, it had become slightly _less_ despicable in the five years since they had moved to the cottage, because--minus a few months of painful misunderstandings and mutual pining--he had woken up nearly every day with Aziraphale at his side. 

Except _this_ morning, apparently, which was reason enough to grumble and burrow beneath the blankets again. Maybe if he stayed here long enough, Aziraphale would come to check on him, and Crowley could persuade him to get back in bed…

He dozed off thinking of the angel, and woke again to find the spot next to him was _still_ empty. He stretched a hand across the cold sheets, and sighed. Aziraphale had been gone for some time now, and likely wouldn’t be returning. If Crowley wanted the angel, he would have to get out of bed. It was _tragic_.

Crowley fought his way out of the blankets and settled his feet on the floor. He hissed. The floor was _cold_ . It had no right to be, because Crowley expected it to be _warm_ and the cottage knew better than to disobey him. He got to his feet and ambled into the bathroom for a shower, which he didn’t _need_ , but he enjoyed partaking in human luxuries now and then. 

Once in the bathroom, though, he was confronted with a new dilemma. It took him some moments to correctly identify the strange pressure in his abdomen. He had to _relieve_ himself. 

Crowley snapped his fingers to make the problem go away. Nothing happened. He frowned. He didn’t think he had become _that_ inebriated last night. Alcohol was about the only thing on Earth that could interfere with his powers, but he had learned millennia ago not to allow himself to drink past the point of no return. He had only broken that rule once, in the fourteenth century. And he _thought_ he remembered every moment of last night with perfect clarity, so it couldn’t be alcohol. 

There was nothing for it, unfortunately. Crowley relieved himself the human way, then turned to the sink to wash his hands. He looked up, caught sight of himself in the mirror, and yelped. 

His _eyes._

Crowley stared at his reflection in the mirror. He blinked. He blinked again. He blinked for a third time, because when he tried to _not_ blink, his eyes felt weird and gritty. 

His _eyes_ . Normal, plain, brown human eyes stared back at him from the mirror. They weren’t remarkable in any way, except that they were _his_ and they were no longer yellow. How was that possible? He examined the rest of his face. Light stubble shadowed his jaw and cheeks, which was also odd, because Crowley wasn’t a huge fan of it and rarely grew any on his corporation. In fact, his corporation was a good deal hairier than he usually allowed. He had dark hair on the back of his arms, his legs, his armpits. Pulling the collar of his shirt away from his skin, he saw that there were dark whorls of hair on his chest, too. 

Human eyes and a hairy human body. Crowley didn’t like the direction this was headed, not one bit. 

There was a muffled yelp downstairs. Crowley had enough presence of mind to grab a pair of sunglasses and shove them on his face before he bolted out of the room and down the stairs. He found Aziraphale in the kitchen, glaring at a smoldering envelope on the table. 

“You could have _warned_ me that you were expecting mail,” he huffed. “ _Honestly_ , Crowley, I wouldn’t have touched it if I’d known!” 

“I’m not,” Crowley said. He gingerly picked up the envelope, holding the singed paper pinched between thumb and forefinger. It was a missive from Hell, all right. He opened it with trepidation, and began to read. 

Aziraphale hovered nervously at his elbow, wringing his hands together. 

“Well?” he prompted after a moment. “What do they want with you now?” 

“Nothing,” Crowley said. He could feel hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest. “Nothing, angel, they want absolutely _nothing_ to do with me anymore.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale offered a quick, nervous smile. “That’s good, isn’t it?” 

“Depends on your definition of _good_ ,” Crowley said. “Hell has decided that my services as a demon and agent on Earth are no longer required. They’ve cut me off from the source of my powers and made my corporation real.” 

Aziraphale gaped at him. “They made you _human_?”

Crowley lifted his sunglasses, pushing them back into his hair. Aziraphale stared. 

“My dear.” He put a hand out, like he meant to lay it on Crowley’s cheek, and stopped with it in midair. “Your eyes…”

“I know.” 

“But _why_ , Crowley? Why would they do this? Making you human, what possible purpose could that serve…” 

He trailed off, color draining from his face as he no doubt reached the inevitable conclusion of that statement.

“They weren’t able to execute me the fast way,” Crowley said quietly. “So they’ve opted for the slow route instead. I get to live my life as a human, and then I get to die as one.”

“No.” Aziraphale’s voice was small, but firm. “No, they can’t do that.” 

“They just did, angel.” 

“No, I refuse to accept that.” 

“You can’t just--you can’t _refuse_ to accept it, it’s what’s happened! It’s a fact, Aziraphale! What are you going to do, march your holy arse into Hell and demand they make me a demon again?” 

“We stopped Armageddon, dear. Compared to that, taking on a few demons is child’s play.” 

“Hell is not _child’s play_ , angel!” Crowley sputtered. “They will _destroy_ you!” 

“It _does_ seem like a rather unnecessary step at this point,” Aziraphale said after a moment’s consideration, and Crowley willed his wildly-hammering heart to calm. “Perhaps there’s an answer to be found at the bookshop. I’ll head there right away. Don’t wait up for me, dear. I might be there quite a while.” 

With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale vanished. Crowley stood there for a moment, blinking stupidly. What had just _happened_? 

****

It would be two hours to London by human means, which were all that were available to Crowley now. He’d have been able to get there in half an hour using the demonically-enhanced Bentley, but now that he was human, his car was also ordinary. And he certainly couldn’t snap his fingers and follow Aziraphale, so there was nothing for it but to wait until the angel came back. 

Food was his primary concern. It took him a few minutes to work out why his stomach felt so _odd_ , like it was folding in on itself, and then he realized that it must be hunger. He’d learned to cook because Aziraphale was hopeless at it, and nothing thrilled Crowley quite like watching Aziraphale savor a meal he had made. He had never cared much for food himself, though. It all tasted bland to him--like most pleasures, that had been taken from him in the Fall. He couldn’t taste much of anything, not even alcohol, but he drank anyway because of the delightful side effects. He’d never seen the point of eating before, and now--well, now it was a necessity.

It was easy enough to scramble some eggs. He had done it enough times for Aziraphale since their move to the South Downs. He took a bite of the cooked eggs and grimaced. He wasn’t sure what was more off-putting, the taste or the texture. Was _all_ human food like this? 

Crowley forced down the rest of the eggs, because they at least served to quiet the rumbling in his stomach, and it meant that he wouldn’t have to eat again for at least a few more hours. He placed the plate in the sink and snapped his fingers--

Oh. Right. _Bugger_. Doing things the human way was so _tedious_. Crowley glowered at the plate for a moment, then turned on his heel and left the kitchen. He would deal with cleaning up later. 

His room was tucked in the back of the cottage, where every day it received the full brunt of the late afternoon sun. Aziraphale was more partial to sunrises-- _and_ he wasn’t cold-blooded--so his room was on the opposite side. Of course, Aziraphale spent most nights in Crowley’s bed anyway, but he still liked to have his own space. 

Crowley opened his wardrobe and glared at the outfits there. For the most part, he preferred to miracle clothing and shoes onto his corporation--it was the only way he could get into those jeans, for one thing. He had collected a few outfits over the years, and now they were all he had to wear. 

He flipped through the clothes, scowling. He finally selected a black t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms. Not his usual style at all, but they were comfortable, at least. Maybe he could persuade Aziraphale to exert some angelic influence on the Bentley, enough to get them both up to London for a day so that Crowley could purchase some real clothing. 

What other belongings did this human version of himself have? It would be just like Hell to send him topside with nothing to his name. It would be awfully inconvenient, and they’d get a good laugh out of it. Crowley went into the study anyway to see what he could turn up. He carried a wallet around for the aesthetic, though it had been gathering dust in Aziraphale’s desk ever since their move to the South Downs. He opened the drawer and fished it out.

Crowley went through his wallet, the desk, the cabinets. He even leafed through a few books and turned up some additional documents, because he knew his absent-minded angel, knew that he was as likely to file away a piece of important documentation in a first edition Wilde as he was to put it in a folder. 

Hell was thorough, Crowley had to give them that. They had not only created a human body for him, but also provided it with all the legal documentation necessary to exist in the twenty-first century. He was surprised that any of them knew what that was, to be honest. After all, _he’d_ been the one to invent tedious things like bureaucracy and paperwork and _taxes_ , and he knew for a fact that no one in Hell ever actually _read_ his field reports.

Well, _someone_ had, he thought sourly. And they’d come up with a rather good identity for him. Anthony J. Crowley (still no idea what the _J_ actually stood for, though), born and raised in London, aged forty-eight (forty-nine in the spring). 

He wondered for a while why Hell had bothered to give him any kind of documentation at all. Surely it would make his human existence more, well, _hellish_ if they hadn’t bothered? But then Crowley sat down to dig further into his human identity, accessing his bank accounts and stock portfolios and--well. He should have known. His accounts had been drained, his stocks all shot to hell, his credit cards were maxed out and his credit score was in the basement. He found some diplomas in the office (this human he was supposed to be had earned several degrees, huh), but when he dug a bit deeper, he discovered that they were faked and no human with his name had ever earned those degrees. Not that he cared, really, except all of that _did_ make his life as a human a good deal more inconvenient. Which was probably the point. 

He sighed, shoving the papers into a drawer. That was a problem to deal with later. 

It was boring around the cottage without Aziraphale. Crowley usually slept the mornings away and spent his afternoons in the garden, tending to the plants (i.e., terrorizing them). He’d cook dinner for Aziraphale and they would retire to the main room, usually with a bottle of wine or three. They’d talk and banter and argue into the early hours of the morning, after which Crowley would finally go to bed and Aziraphale would either join him or retreat into his study to read. Lather, rinse, repeat. Retirement suited him in a way he hadn’t thought that it would, but without Aziraphale, there wasn’t much to be said for it. 

Crowley spent the afternoon in the garden. As the day wore on and the shadows lengthened, he came back into the house and stretched out on the sofa. He pulled out his mobile and stirred up some arguments on Twitter, but that only occupied him for so long. 

Finally, when he could stand his own company no longer, he dialed the bookshop.

“Yes, Crowley?” Aziraphale said when he picked up, because no one else ever called that line.

“Hey, angel. Think you’ll be back for dinner?” 

“Oh, goodness, is it that time already? I don’t think I will, dear fellow, there’s still so much research to do--”

“I can’t tempt you to bring something home, can I?” Crowley said, dropping his voice half an octave. “I have a human appetite and human taste buds, angel, but I don’t even know where to begin. I was thinking you might want to pick up something _scrumptious_ for us to try. Show me what proper cuisine tastes like.” 

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale sounded suddenly flustered. Crowley grinned to himself. “Y-yes, you’re absolutely right. Oh, Crowley, there are _so many_ delicious foods to introduce you to! I hardly know where to start. I shall have to put some thought into it. Let’s see, it’s nearly four now. I’ll be home with food by, say, seven o’clock. Don’t fill up on nibbles before then!”

In his excitement, he then hung up before Crowley even had a chance to say goodbye.

****

For the second time that day, Crowley was scrutinizing himself in the mirror.

Now that the shock of the situation had worn off, he took time to actually examine his face. It was just like his corporation’s face, except that there were permanent lines stamped at the corners of his eyes and grooves bracketing his mouth. There were threads of silver in his hair, too, most prominently at his temples. He had shaved that morning, and already stubble covered his cheeks and jaw. He scratched at it irritably.

Crowley stalked back over to the wardrobe and threw it open. He cast a critical eye over the outfits in there, lamenting the fact that he no longer had the ability to alter his body to fit his desired outfit on any given day. This would especially prove frustrating when it came to the dresses and heels. 

One by one, he started to try on all the outfits, mentally cataloging what would need to be altered or thrown out entirely and replaced with clothes that actually fit. Nearly all of the shoes were a lost cause; he would have to replace almost all of the heels and most of the boots. It was so much _easier_ to simply modify one’s corporation or clothing, but now he could do neither. 

He heard Aziraphale materialize in the main room and putter around the kitchen for a bit before he came to seek out Crowley.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale appeared in the doorway; Crowley caught his reflection in the mirror. “What are you doing?” 

“Blessed annoying, having a body you can’t alter,” Crowley grumbled. He turned from side to side, examining the red dress that once upon a time would have fit his corporation with a thought. He couldn’t modify his human body that easily. “How do humans _stand_ it?” 

“Well, they don’t know anything different, dear.” Aziraphale came over to him, and all of a sudden there were warm fingertips pressing into the small of Crowley’s back. He barely held back a yelp, startled at the unexpected touch as Aziraphale zipped up the dress. “See, it still fits.” 

“Not the way I want it to,” Crowley muttered, scowling. This body of his was lean like his corporation had been, which was fine for his usual choice of attire. But sometimes he wanted a softer, curvier figure. Wider hips, slender hands, a less prominent jaw and nose. Ugh, and now he would have to actually _wait_ for his hair to grow out if he wanted to try anything different with it. 

“Well, I think you look lovely,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley’s brain promptly short-circuited. “Come downstairs, I’ve brought dinner.” 

_Dinner_ was an understatement. It looked as though Aziraphale had raided every restaurant in London. Enough food filled the table to feed their entire village, and then some. 

“Angel, you are _ridiculous_ ,” Crowley said, not even attempting to keep the fondness out of his voice, and Aziraphale beamed at him. “What are you going to do with the leftovers? You _hate_ leftovers.” 

“Oh, they will be put to good use,” Aziraphale said, which meant that dozens of families across the country were going to find some extra food had miraculously appeared in their refrigerators overnight. He pulled out Crowley’s chair for him. “Now. Let’s start with the _oysters_.” 

The food was good; watching Aziraphale was better. Once Crowley had satisfied his own hunger, he propped his chin in his hand and watched Aziraphale eat, which was always his favorite part of a meal. 

“What did you think?” Aziraphale asked at last, dabbing a napkin against his mouth and settling back in his chair, looking satisfied and immensely pleased with himself.

“S’nice being able to taste it,” Crowley said. “Still dunno what’s so appealing about oysters, but the crepes were good.” 

“They came from Paris. Popped them over here with a little miracle. Now you understand why I simply _had_ to go to the source.” 

“Not sure they’re worth losing your head over, but that’s alright.” Crowley leaned in, nuzzling Aziraphale’s neck. “I _like_ rescuing you, angel.” 

“Yes, I figured that out about a millennia ago.” Aziraphale smirked. 

What a bastard, Crowley thought fondly. _My_ bastard.

They retired to Aziraphale’s study after dinner, which was their usual evening ritual. Crowley relaxed marginally at this brief respite, this return to something that felt normal. Drinking wine with his angel while they argued about everything and nothing--yes, _this_ was right. Sure, he could no longer put four bottles away in a single night, and he couldn’t miracle himself sober, but he could still share this with Aziraphale. 

Six thousand years of drinking himself silly apparently hadn’t translated into this new human body. Crowley felt himself grow tipsy after only a single glass of wine, and was well on his way to drunk by the third one. Aziraphale, considerate as always, had slowed his usual drinking pace to match Crowley’s new limitation, which only served to _remind_ Crowley of said limitation, and thus pissed him off. 

“For fuck’s sake, angel, drink like you mean it,” he muttered petulantly. “No need to hold yourself back on my account.”

“I’m not holding myself back, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I simply don’t feel like indulging much tonight.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.” 

“I’m not lying,” Aziraphale said mildly, refusing to give in to the fight Crowley so desperately wanted to have. “It’s been something of a day, and I don’t feel like being inebriated at the moment.” 

“ _Something of a day_ , he says,” Crowley muttered. “Well, you’re not the one who woke up _mortal_.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to his drink. He wouldn’t look at Crowley when he said, “We need to go to Tadfield.” 

It took Crowley’s wine-soaked mind a moment to parse this. 

“Tadfield?” He frowned. “Is something wrong with Adam?”

“No, not that I’m aware.”

“Then why do you want to go to Tadfield?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. “Really, my dear.” 

“What, you think a sixteen-year-old _child_ can help with this?” Crowley waved a hand at his body. “He’s a normal human now. There’s nothing he can do.” 

“Perhaps not personally, but he does have connections in Hell, connections that you no longer have--” 

“He _renounced_ Hell, Aziraphale! Or do you not remember standing next to him when he told Satan to fuck off?” 

“Then perhaps Anathema can help.” 

“Book Girl? What do you want her to do, dig up the ashes of the second prophecy book and see if she can piece any of it back together? See if Agnes mentioned anything about a flash demon being turned into a human and how to turn him back?” 

“Well, at least I’m trying!” Aziraphale snapped. He sounded suddenly sober, and for all Crowley knew, he was. “What I can’t understand is why you’re not. Don’t you _care_?” 

“Of course I bloody care, angel, do you think I wanted this?” 

“You’re not doing much about it.” 

“You don’t know Hell like I do, Aziraphale!” Crowley snapped. “I’m being practical here. Realistic. There’s nothing you can do to fix what they’ve done to me. Not a thing. Hell has decided that I’m going to live and die as a human. That’s what’s going to happen.” 

“Hell decided to have you executed five years ago, and you escaped a bath of Holy Water,” Aziraphale pointed out. “This is nothing compared to that.” 

“I bought myself time, that’s all. Well, _you_ bought me time. Borrowed time, that’s all I’ve been living on these past few years.” Crowley dug his wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open, and tossed it on the table so Aziraphale could see his new identification. “See that? Forty-eight years old. That’s how long this body has been on Earth. I’m already halfway through a human lifespan, if I’m lucky. I’m not going to waste the thirty-odd years I have left chasing after Hell, begging them to restore me to my old corporation. It isn’t going to work, and I’ve got better things to do with my time.” 

Aziraphale drained his wine in one jerky movement, then set the glass aside and stood.

“I’m going to bed,” he said stiffly. “Good night.”

The angel stayed in his own room that night.

****

Crowley drove them to Tadfield on Saturday under great duress. Without his powers, the drive was long and dreadfully _boring_. But the alternative was another day, perhaps even an entire weekend, alone in the cottage without Aziraphale, who was determined to visit Anathema and Adam to find a solution to Crowley’s problem. Being alone was even less appealing than having tea with a witch and the Antichrist, so Crowley reluctantly came along.

Anathema greeted them at the door with her youngest perched on her hip.

“You’re early,” she said. 

“Yes, but you knew that we would be, didn’t you?” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. It wasn’t as though they’d ever been able to take the witch by surprise. He held out his arms, and Anathema handed the baby over. “Hello, Mariam.”

The baby cooed at him, then stuck her fist in her mouth. Someone cleared their throat. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, hello, Antichrist.”

Adam Young was already seated in Anathema’s living room, Dog at his feet. He waved. “Hullo, Crowley. Hi, Az.” 

“Hello, dear boy. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” Aziraphale said. “I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a...problem on our hands.” 

“Yes, I can tell,” Anathema said, peering at Crowley. “Your aura is all wrong.” 

“Yeah, it’s ‘cause I’m human now.” Crowley let Mariam pull his sunglasses off his face, exposing his changed eyes. “Don’t suppose you had anything to do with this, Antichrist?”

“Or know how to fix it?” Aziraphale jumped in. “That’s what we’re here for, really. There must be some way to turn him back.” 

“You wanna be a demon again?” Adam frowned at him. “You _hated_ being a demon.” 

“Yeah, well, being a human’s not exactly an improvement,” Crowley muttered. “Your bodies are disgusting, did you know that? And your life spans are _criminally_ short.”

Mariam, who had been busy trying to fit the arms of Crowley’s sunglasses in her mouth, suddenly gave a happy shriek and flung the glasses on the floor. Aziraphale picked them up and put them on her face. She giggled. 

“Let’s all sit down,” Anathema said. “I’ll bring us some tea, and you can tell us _exactly_ what happened.” 

There wasn’t much to tell. Everything had been normal up until the morning that Crowley rolled out of bed and was met with a very human reflection in the mirror. There had been no warning. He hadn’t even been aware of it happening. The only reason they knew it was Hell’s doing was because of the note left behind.

“So as you can tell, we’re at something of a loss,” Aziraphale said. He twisted his hands together in agitation. “I looked through every relevant text in the bookshop, and came up with nothing. I thought you might be able to help, Miss Device. Or you, Adam. I know you don’t have your powers any longer, but perhaps you could still exert some influence Downstairs…” 

He trailed off as Adam shook his head. “I don’t have any connections to Hell, not anymore. I told Lucifer to shove off, and that’s what he did. I’m completely human now, and my dad _is_ my dad.”

“You can’t influence reality at all anymore?” Aziraphale asked. “Not even a bit?”

“Not a bit.” Adam shrugged. “Sorry.” 

Aziraphale turned to Anathema. “I don’t suppose Agnes ever said anything about this.” 

“Not that I’m aware of,” Anathema said, delicately skirting around the one sore point between her and Aziraphale--the fact that she had burned the second book of prophecy, and without ever reading it. “I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to help, either, but...I can try.”

At this, Crowley tuned out the conversation. He had known this would be a waste of time, and had only agreed to the venture in order to appease Aziraphale. He sat on the floor in front of the sofa, watching Mariam as she crawled about on the carpet. She amused herself for a while by crawling over to the toy basket in the corner, selecting one, and bringing it to Crowley. She did this until he had a pile of brightly-colored toys in his lap. 

“What did you do that for, hm?” he asked her. “Now there’s no room for you.” 

Mariam plopped down on her bum and clapped delightedly. Crowley made a face at her; she giggled. Book Girl had the most easy-going baby on the planet. He had spent enough time with children over the millennia to say that with almost absolute certainty.

Of course, even easy-going babies hit rough patches now and then, given that they couldn’t properly communicate their needs with actual words. Mariam soon became fussy, and Crowley dumped the toys out of his lap to scoop her into his arms. He carried her into the kitchen, where he plucked a bottle of milk from the refrigerator and popped it in the microwave to heat up. Book Girl insisted that they not use their powers in her house, so Crowley was already accustomed to doing all this the human way. When it was done, he took the bottle from the microwave and tested the milk against his wrist. Satisfied, he settled into one of the kitchen chairs and started to feed the baby.

“What do you think, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked from the other room.

Crowley hadn’t been paying attention, but he said, “Probably won’t work,” anyway.

“You don’t know that.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “What’s the plan, then?” 

“It’s possible that your demonic essence is buried deep inside you. Perhaps even hidden in another plane, like your wings. You’re completely human without it, but if we can access it and draw it out…” Book Girl trailed off with a shrug. 

“It won’t work,” Crowley said, but Aziraphale had that stubborn set to his jaw that Crowley knew he couldn’t resist. He sighed. “Fine, whatever. Do what you’re going to do.” 

Book Girl came over to him and plucked Mariam from his arms. He scowled at her. 

“First,” she said, “the children are _leaving_.”

****

It didn’t take much time at all for Anathema to pack Newt and the three children off to his parents’ house for the night. Crowley had never before seen multiple children be corralled so quickly--Warlock alone would have taken an hour to get out the door--and assumed that Aziraphale had broken the No Powers rule. From the way Anathema glowered at him, he thought he was probably right. 

Adam offered to stay and help, but Anathema told him he’d better get home before his parents started looking for him. Adam rolled his eyes, because his parents had given up keeping tabs on him _years_ ago, but took her point--there was nothing he could do to help them, not without his powers.

“It’s not so bad,” he said to Crowley on his way out. “Being human.” 

Crowley had no response to that, so settled for his usual ritual of ruffling Adam’s hair in lieu of saying goodbye. Adam gave Aziraphale a quick hug, and left with Dog.

Crowley played games on his phone while Aziraphale and Anathema flitted about the kitchen, gathering supplies, digging up old texts out of Anathema’s surprisingly vast library, chanting words in languages he hadn’t heard in centuries. Anathema pricked his finger twice to use some of his blood, plucked some of his hairs, even prodded him hard enough in the side so that he produced tears she collected in a small vial.

Nothing worked. 

It wasn’t that their efforts had the _potential_ to work, but fell short. It was that there was nothing for them to work _with,_ and therefore had no chance of succeeding no matter how hard they tried. Crowley’s demonic nature was gone. His soul had been stuffed inside a human body that looked like his corporation, but everything that made him immortal, powerful, Evil--all of that was gone.

He was simply a human. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Finally, some time after midnight, Anathema swiped the back of a hand across her forehead and said, “Right, I think we need to call it a night.”

“Surely there must be something else we can try?” Aziraphale said, flipping through the brittle pages of an ancient tome.

“If I think of anything, you’ll be the first to know,” Anathema said. “But...I think we’ve reached the limits of my abilities. I’m sorry.” 

Aziraphale’s face crumpled. Crowley pocketed his phone and stood.

“Come on, angel,” he said. “Let’s go home.” 

Anathema shook her head. “No. You two should stay the night.” 

Aziraphale gave her a wan smile. “That’s alright, dear girl. We really should be going--”

“It’s two in the morning, it’s a two-hour drive, and he’s a _human_ now,” Anathema said, jerking her head in Crowley’s direction. “He’s exhausted. He’ll be no use to you on the road right now. Stay the night, and head out in the morning.” 

“Ah. Quite right.” 

There was an attic room that had been converted into a spare bedroom. The ceiling sloped steeply, low enough that Crowley had to duck to avoid hitting his head. Stoop-shouldered, he moved over to the bed and collapsed on it. He hadn’t realized how bone-tired he was until Anathema brought it up. 

Aziraphale remained standing in the middle of the room, wringing his hands and staring unseeingly out the small window. 

“Come to bed, angel,” Crowley said, patting the mattress beside him. 

“Thank you, dear, but I’m not tired.” 

“Yeah, well, I _am_ , and I’d sleep better if you were here.” Crowley held out a hand, waggling his fingers. 

Aziraphale let out a put-upon sigh, but acquiesced. He snapped his fingers, and Crowley’s clothes disappeared, replaced with his usual black silk pyjamas. Aziraphale had also changed into cream-colored pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, and he slid into the bed. Crowley wiggled into the blankets next to him. 

“Gonna give that corporation of yours a heart attack,” Crowley murmured, reaching out to smooth the deep lines around Aziraphale’s eyes with his fingertips. “Stop worrying so much, angel.” 

“Impossible, my dear. Not when your life is on the line.” 

“I’m not dying anytime soon,” Crowley said. “This body has at least thirty more years in it. Forty, maybe, if I’m lucky.” 

“I’m supposed to fit millennia of loving you into thirty years? Forgive me if I find that appalling.” 

“If that’s all we have, I’d rather you were present for it.” Crowley drew Aziraphale in for a kiss. “Look, give me tonight at least. You can return to scouring ancient tomes and performing magical rituals on me tomorrow.”

Aziraphale sighed, but didn’t resist as Crowley tugged him close. He settled with his head on Crowley’s chest, an arm draped over his middle, their legs entwined. 

“Sleep, angel,” Crowley murmured, but of course he fell asleep even before he heard Aziraphale’s answer.

****

Life, in many ways, went back to normal when they returned to the cottage. Crowley had a whole host of human bodily functions to get used to, in addition to not being able to use his powers anymore, but that didn’t affect him as much as he had feared it would. He still filled his time with his usual hobbies--watching reality shows, starting fights on Twitter, tending to his garden. He merely had to remember to eat occasionally and drink some water. 

Aziraphale spent most of his time reading, as was his custom, though Crowley had also occasionally found him with his nose pressed almost to the screen of his monstrous desktop computer, searching Internet forums for possible solutions to Crowley’s predicament. But he also resumed his normal activities, getting together with his monthly book club or gossiping with the ladies who came over for Wednesday night sewing circle.

They went out and bought Crowley a new wardrobe. It was inconvenient, not having a body that he could alter at will, but he felt a bit better about it once he had purchased clothes and shoes that fit this new body, rather than the other way around. He grew particularly fond of one of the dresses, which was a shade of blue he never would have chosen for himself, but Aziraphale had loved it and Crowley realized that it was the same shade as his angel’s eyes. He had purchased it on the spot, and wore it to their first proper date night since Hell’s punishment had come through. 

It was the Ritz, because of course it was. Only this time, for the first time since it opened in 1906, Crowley actually ordered a meal for himself. It was delicious, because it was the _Ritz_ , but he still enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat far more than he cared for his own meal. 

“You look _divine_ tonight, darling, have I told you so?” Aziraphale brushed his thumb along Crowley’s lower lip. 

“Once or twice, but I could stand to hear it a few more times.” Crowley captured Aziraphale’s hand and kissed his palm. “I was thinking, angel…” 

“Yes, dearest?” 

“Well, it’s such a _long_ drive back to the cottage, and we’ve never stayed here before. Thought we might get a room, spend the night.” Crowley tangled their fingers together. “Maybe take this new body of mine for a spin?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale blushed furiously. “I hadn’t thought--well, of course, if that’s what you’d like--” 

“I want whatever you want,” Crowley said. “If you want to go back to the cottage, then that’s what we’ll do. If you want to stay here, we’ll do that. No sex? Fine by me, as long as I get to wake up in your arms in the morning. I don’t care what we do, angel, as long as I get to do it with you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said softly, curling his fingers around Crowley’s. “Oh, my dear…” 

“It’s a new body, but I’m still me. Stop being so afraid of it, yeah?” Crowley kissed him gently. “I _miss_ you, Aziraphale. Miss your touch, your warmth. I’m human, but you aren’t going to break me.” 

Aziraphale signaled for the check. 

“I do believe a room has just opened up,” he said as he paid the bill. “And it’s free for the rest of the weekend. If that would be amenable to you?”

“Why, angel,” Crowley purred, “that sounds _delightful_.” 

****

Crowley’s house plants no longer listened to him. 

He could snap and snarl and threaten them all day long, but it didn’t make a difference. They no longer trembled in terror every time he stepped into the atrium, and he couldn’t hiss at the leaf spots to make them vanish. He had to water and prune all the plants properly, and make sure they all got the correct amount of sunlight, and even then some of them still died.

That was life, he supposed.

It was the same with his gardens outside, but that didn’t irritate him as much. He might have kept his house plants in line with harsh words and a strong fist, but he had always gardened the human way. Aziraphale liked to join him sometimes, reclining in a chair in the shade and reading aloud from whatever book he happened to be immersed in that day while Crowley tended to the plants. 

Except it wasn’t a book, not today. Crowley had had the brilliant idea to introduce Aziraphale to Instagram--and, like most of his brilliant ideas, it had come back to bite him in the arse. Aziraphale had spent the past three days glued to his phone, even bringing it with him into Crowley’s bed so that he could keep scrolling while Crowley slept.

“...and this woman makes the most _darling_ little cakes. Look at them, my dear!” Aziraphale turned the screen of his mobile in Crowley’s direction, even though Crowley was fifty feet away and up to his elbows in soil. “I shall have to message her and see if she would provide the recipe. And I wonder how she got the lighting on this picture to be _just_ right…”

Aziraphale prattled on, and Crowley let his musical voice wash over him. He had just reached for his trowel when there was a sharp _crack_ , and the smell of ozone filled his nostrils. He was on his feet in an instant, but Aziraphale was faster, moving with inhuman speed to put himself between Crowley and Gabriel. 

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale’s voice was cold and clipped.

“So it’s true.” Gabriel always looked like a smug git, but now he was almost _gleeful_. “The demon is now a human. Oh, this is _too good_. How does it feel, demon, to be so close to death?” 

“You have no right to speak to him,” Aziraphale snapped. 

“Feels fine, actually, thanks for asking,” Crowley said. “Now bugger off.”

Gabriel held up his hands. “I mean you no harm. I simply had to come see for myself if it was true. Got to hand it to Beelzebub, eh? They always come up with the most _clever_ punishments.” 

Aziraphale made an aborted move toward Gabriel, like he was about to chuck his mobile at the git’s head. Gabriel smirked and vanished. 

For as brief as Gabriel’s visit was, it brought up a whole host of thoughts Crowley had been trying to ignore for the past week. He cooked dinner for his angel, and then settled with him in the study to argue about the week’s crossword over a bottle of wine. Of course, one bottle became two, and Crowley’s mood took a swift nose-dive from content to maudlin. 

“What d’you suppose’ll happen to me?” Crowley swallowed another mouthful of wine. “Y’know. When I die. Does it wipe the slate clean, being turned into a human? Can’t imagine that it does. Otherwise, Hell wouldn’t have done this at all. I’m tainted regardless, probably, only now I get to spend eternity in Hell as a _human_. You think demons are treated badly down there? Try being a damned human soul.” 

“You aren’t going to die,” Aziraphale said firmly. “We’re going to figure out a solution to this problem, Crowley.”

Crowley swirled the wine in his glass, momentarily transfixed by the red liquid that sloshed against its sides. 

“What if I don’t want to?” 

Aziraphale went very still. “What?” 

“S’not so bad, y’know. Bein’ a human,” Crowley murmured. “Got taste buds now, those’re nice. Eyes don’t hurt me anymore. No wings, but mine were pretty ugly anyway.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said heatedly. “Your wings were as lovely as the rest of you. Crowley, you can’t mean this. Humans are wonderful, yes, but you are not one of them! Neither of us are. We’re not _supposed_ to be.”

“Why not?” Crowley lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Liked ‘em well enough to turn our backs on our sides for ‘em, yeah? What’s so wrong with bein’ one of ‘em now?”

“Because,” Aziraphale sputtered, “it means that you’re mortal, Crowley! You’re going to _die_!” 

Crowley swallowed several responses to that, each one worse than the last. He couldn’t tell Aziraphale what a _relief_ that was--not the dying part, of course not, but the fact that now he knew what was going to happen to him. He didn’t have to spend the rest of his existence looking over his shoulder anymore, because Hell had finally dealt with him. They had delivered his death sentence. It was over. He no longer had to fear that Aziraphale would be taken from him, that he would have to exist in the world alone. He was going to die, and that was fine. He had Aziraphale now, and thanks to Hell, he would have Aziraphale for the rest of his life. Crowley doubted Beelzebub would be pleased to know that they had given him exactly what he wanted. 

“S’not so bad, angel,” he said finally. “I’m not afraid.” 

“Well, I _am_.” 

“Angel, no.” Crowley knocked his glass of wine to the floor in his haste to scramble out of his chair and over to Aziraphale. It was a testament to Aziraphale’s state of mind that he didn’t scold Crowley for the wine staining the rug, nor did he wave a hand to vanish the mess. “No, no, don’ be scared. You’re gonna be alright. Stronger than me, yeah? Better than me. You can do this without me.” 

“I don’t _want_ to, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and his hands were trembling when Crowley clasped them. “You’ve been the only constant in my life for millennia. My best friend. My partner. My _love_. I don’t want to do this without you. What would be the point? We stopped the end of the world together for _this_?”

“It will be okay, angel,” Crowley said, because it had to be. It _would_ be. This was _Aziraphale_. He didn’t need Crowley the way that Crowley needed him. 

Aziraphale sniffed, and then abruptly stood.

“I think I had better turn in,” he said. 

He bid Crowley a subdued good night, kissing him gently at the corner of his mouth, and retreated to his bedroom. Crowley, of course, found that he _couldn’t_ sleep. He couldn’t even stand to be in the cottage, not for a moment longer. Not when it felt too small, too _suffocating_. There was no moon tonight, nothing to see by, but he had never needed artificial light to find his way--not as a demon, and certainly not now. He wandered out into the pitch black of the back garden to brood among his plants. 

Why was it that whenever he thought he had it right, fate intervened to rip the rug out from under him? He thought he had thrown off the shackles of Hell, had tricked Heaven, and finally earned his retirement. But no. As ever, Hell was one step ahead of him, allowing him a few years of respite, enough to make him think that maybe it would last for eternity. He was going to hurt his angel, even though he had spent six thousand years making sure that he was the one being in all of creation who never would. 

Crowley sank to the ground, his sharp knees digging into the damp soil. He braced his hands on his thighs and hung his head, drawing sharp breaths through his nose. 

“Why did You let him fall in love with me?” He knew that She could hear him, even if She never answered. “All knowing, all seeing, that’s what You are. You knew he would fall in love with me. You knew Hell was going to get its revenge. You let it all happen anyway. How could You do that to the only one of Your creations who is worthy of the name ‘angel’?” 

He tilted his head to the sky, gazed upon the stars he had created so long ago.

“You can’t do this to him. You _can’t_. I don’t care what happens to me, but I won’t be the source of his pain. I won’t cause him a _moment_ of agony. So you _fix_ this. You hear me? Don’t let him mourn me when I die. Give him someone else to love. Make him realize that he never should have loved me in the first place. Erase his memories of me. I don’t care what it is, but You _do_ it. Understand? Whatever it is, whatever it takes. Don’t let him suffer for all eternity. It isn’t _right_.” 

Of course, there was no answer. Crowley stayed there in the garden, on his knees, until dawn started to leak over the horizon. It was only then that he climbed painfully to his feet, brushed the dirt off his knees, and went inside.

****

The sleepless night caught up to Crowley, and he ended up passing out on the sofa without meaning to. He woke up around midday to find that a blanket had been thrown over him and his sunglasses were folded neatly on the table next to him. He heard the shower running, and smiled to himself. He had been badgering Aziraphale for _years_ to try it out, just this once. It was almost _sinful_ how good a hot shower felt. The angel’s curiosity must have finally gotten the better of him.

Crowley threw off the blanket and got to his feet, stretching his arms to the ceiling and groaning as his vertebrae popped and straightened out. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee, and then his stomach rudely reminded him that he should also make some breakfast. He was just putting the finishing touches on a couple of omelettes when Aziraphale came into the room. 

“That smells _lovely_ , dearest.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek as Crowley handed him a plate with one of the omelettes on it. “Thank you ever so much.” 

Crowley relaxed fractionally. He’d been fretting about what he could possibly say to Aziraphale after last night, but it seemed that Aziraphale was willing enough to let it go, at least for now. After all, there was nothing either of them could do to change the circumstances. They would simply have to learn how to live with them. 

He sat down at the table with his own omelette, which he ate slowly and only because his body required it. He indulged in his favorite pastime--watching Aziraphale eat--and sipped at his coffee. Aziraphale prattled on about his plans for the day, the book he’d been reading last night, the nice young ladies who ran the Wednesday night sewing circle ( _everyone_ was young, to Aziraphale), and that new restaurant he wanted to try out the next time the two of them were in London. Crowley made vague sounds at various intervals to show that he was still listening, though of course he was much more interested in the way the morning sunlight glinted off Aziraphale’s fair hair. 

Aziraphale helped him clean up after breakfast. Crowley grumbled something about Aziraphale being able to do it with a snap of his fingers, and Aziraphale countered him by saying that sometimes it was more rewarding to do things the human way. Crowley didn’t actually mind, of course. He would find even watching paint dry with Aziraphale at his side to be a completely enthralling experience. 

“And then, she said-- _oh_ , bother.” Aziraphale broke off mid-story, glaring at his finger. “Goodness. That _does_ sting a bit, doesn’t it?” 

“What happened?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale turned away and reached for a napkin. “Nothing, dear. I’m sorry. Now, where was I? Oh, yes--”

He broke off again when Crowley carefully gripped his wrist, turning his hand over so he could see the offending finger.

“Angel,” Crowley said blankly. “You’re bleeding.” 

“Yes, it appears I am.” Aziraphale gently tugged his hand away and pressed the napkin against the small cut. 

“You don’t bleed.” There was a rushing sound in Crowley’s ears, blotting out all thought, all other sound. _Oh_. So that was what humans meant when they said that blood pounded in their ears. “Angel, you don’t--”

“I don’t think you can call me that anymore, dearest,” Aziraphale said gently, and Crowley’s legs gave out. He landed on the floor in a graceless heap. Aziraphale knelt beside him and took Crowley’s shaking hands in his. “I only noticed it this morning when I woke up. It must have happened sometime last night. I’m human now too _,_ Crowley.” 

“ _No_ .” Crowley yanked his hands away and buried his face in them, cold dread seeping into his bones. “No _, no_ , it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t! I _prayed_.” 

“You-- _what_?”

“Last night, in the garden,” Crowley said miserably. He sniffed, and then let out a hysterical laugh. “It’s always a garden, isn’t it? I prayed, and I told Her to fix it. To not let me bring you pain, or--or suffering.”

“Dearest.” Aziraphale laid a hand on his cheek. “Don’t you see that She answered your prayers?” 

“She made you _mortal_.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said gently. “She made me human, so I can live out my life with you. That’s all I want, Crowley. That’s all I’ve _ever_ wanted. Forever was bearable, when I thought it would be with you. The idea of an eternity without you...well, it doesn’t even bear contemplation. I don’t care about immortality, if I can’t share that with you.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Crowley said wretchedly. “I didn’t ask for you to be given a death sentence, too!” 

“My darling, this isn’t a death sentence. It’s a _gift_.” Aziraphale pulled gently on his hands, and Crowley got shakily to his feet. “Everything we’ve experienced these past six thousand years, we’ve done it together. The thought of you dying, of there being something I could never share with you, of being _left behind_ …”

Aziraphale trailed off. He reached up and cupped Crowley’s cheek, brushing his thumb under Crowley’s eye to wipe away the liquid there. 

“You prayed to God, asking Her to not let me suffer. I assure you, dearest, that had I been forced to spend the rest of existence without you, I would have suffered greatly indeed. Now, I shan’t have to worry about that.” 

“We’ll be separated when we die. My soul will go to Hell, yours to Heaven. The one place I--I can’t go,” Crowley choked out. “At least if you were alive and on Earth, I could visit you somehow. I would, you _know_ I would. I’d find a way.”

“Crowley, do you truly believe your soul to be so tainted?” Aziraphale looked pained. “Do you think I could love someone who wasn’t a good person? You are _human_ , Crowley, with a human soul that has been wiped clean of the sins of your past. God wouldn’t have answered your prayers if it were otherwise.” 

“How can you be so sure?” 

Aziraphale’s smile was beatific. 

“Because, my dear, I have _faith_.” 

Crowley leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s, breathing in the book-worn scent of him. 

“It’s a good life we have,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You, me, the cottage. Your plants and my books and no one around to bother us for miles. And now we can eat together, breathe together, experience the passage of time together. You don’t have to go through it alone, my dear.” 

Crowley pulled Aziraphale into an embrace, pressing his face to the side of Aziraphale’s throat. He murmured, “Love you, angel,” into the warm skin there. Aziraphale turned his head, pressed his lips to Crowley’s tattoo, and held him.

[silentsonata](https://soundcloud.com/silentsonata-241560460) · [Because, My Dear, I Have Faith](https://soundcloud.com/silentsonata-241560460/because-my-dear-i-have-faith)


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